An Ideal Match
by Moonkitty Liafle
Summary: Heero discovers that both love and life have a bittersweet flavor.
1. Deadded

A/N: I have been absent from 1xR fanfics for over a year pondering this fic- -my final good-bye to 1xR fanfic writing. As of now I have already written five chapters in advance and I do not expect the fic to be longer than ten chapters. Now that I've reached the halfway point, I decided it was safe to share. Please note that all ratings will be per chapter.  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing. I am making no profit through the online distribution of this fic.  
  
Chapter Rating: PG-13; for mature content  
  
Categories: Drama, Angst, Romance  
  
Reading Note: Please keep in mind that there will be three separate storylines of the overall fic. The parts told in first-person present tense describe the 'past,' The parts in third-person past tense describe the 'present,' and the parts in third-person present tense are meant to loosen your impression of time, but generally coincides with the scenes in the 'present.' I have been told by previous readers that it is not very difficult to follow, but I wanted you to be informed.  
  
"An Ideal Match" By: Moonkitty  
  
Chapter I "De-added"  
  
"A Chinaman of the T'ang Dynasty-and, by which definition, a philosopher- dreamed he was a butterfly, and from that moment he was never quite sure that he was not a butterfly dreaming he was a Chinese philosopher. Envy him; in his two-fold security."  
  
--Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead  
  
".Can you hear me? I'd like to fling my voice out like a cloth over the broken fragments of your death and tug it till it was all in tatters, and everything I ever said was forced to go clad in the rags of that torn voice and freeze."  
  
--Rainer Maria Rilke, "For a Friend" of "Requiem for a Friend", 1907  
  
I walk up to the podium, wincing at the bright flood lamp on my face. I'm more nervous than I thought I'd be.  
  
"Hello, my name is Heero Yuy, and my life has no meaning anymore."  
  
"Good work!"  
  
"Well done!"  
  
"We're so proud of you!"  
  
The entire crowd is applauding me, cheering for me, taking my success into their hearts to motivate themselves.  
  
And then I wake up.  
  
That's the travesty my life has become. I don't pretend to have interest in other people, and they don't have interest in me. I'm not obsessed with Relena Darlian. I'm not the warped experiment of a deranged mind,  
  
I'm Heero Yuy, world hero and mass murderer, thank you very much.  
  
Its five o'clock, Feburary 18th, AC 202. I am tangled up in a mass of sheets, and the neon sign running down the side of the hotel pours red light into my room. The sink upstairs is leaking (drip-drip-drip) into the bucket I set out last night. My laptop is sitting on the desk. My suitcase rests on the dresser. I sleep in my clothes.  
  
It's easier that way.  
  
I have been traveling for a while, enrolling in schools across the colonies and leaving after a couple of months. The hacking skills I picked up during the war have proven to be even more useful in the years afterwards.  
  
I eat a meal bar for breakfast (processed proteins, tastes like newspaper). They're strangely addictive.  
  
I often eat in front of the hotel's vid screen (usually malfunctioning and only getting one channel, which either features the news or infomercials). If it's the news, I'll watch it. I often see Relena then, raising money for starving children or settling a negotiation dispute. She's chief foreign minister these days, and she ties her hair back more often (which is a shame, because I've always liked it long and loose and free).  
  
But she seems to be okay. I've lost direct contact with her.  
  
It's easier that way.  
  
I don't sleep well.  
  
I usually have bad dreams, shameful dreams, tempting dreams. Life.before was so much easier than now. After solving problems with violence for so much time, it becomes hard to loosen your hold on it. It consumes you.  
  
Someone is pounding on my door. The gun is in my hand before I even think about it. I get up close to the doorframe and wait.  
  
"Who's there?"  
  
"You're two weeks behind on your payments. Are you going to pay or do I have to kick you out?"  
  
The landlady. Fun. She is a square-shaped sort of woman with a matching square jaw and long red fingernails shaped like claws. Her nails-across-a- chalkboard voice stirs fear into the hearts of anyone who hears her.  
  
She probably rented out this hotel during the war. She probably lent it out to OZ soldiers. She probably didn't care about their suppression of the colonies. She is guilty. I know it. She is guilty of harboring the enemy and indirect promotion of oppressive governments.  
  
If I kill her, no one would really mind. They might even thank me.  
  
I'd thank me.  
  
I check through the keyhole. She's waving a huge ring of keys and making threats of opening up.  
  
Stupid, ugly woman. No one would mourn you.  
  
My gun is rising up without mental command. I'll swing open the door. She'll gape at me with her mouth open like a fish. Her red-clawed fingers will loosen on the key chain. The keys will hit the floor at the exact moment my gun goes off. She'll fall back against door 483. I will slam my door shut again, put my laptop in my suitcase and leave through the fire escape. I'll wipe down my gun with my shirt (to remove the fingerprints) and slip it in with the spaceport garbage as I board my next ship. If the gun is found, it won't matter. I bought it under a false name and ID anyway. They'd never know.  
  
"I don't.I don't have to kill anyone ever again."  
  
I close my eyes. I try to force the image back, but it only comes up stronger. A girl is smiling at me, blue-eyed and blond haired. Her bangs fall into her face, but she brushes them away, still smiling. Her eyes are like the ocean, playful and bright at first glance, but dark and sad deep below the surface.  
  
She reshaped the world. She made people like me unnecessary.  
  
She has relieved me of my greatest burden but has left me with a vacuum within.  
  
I don't need to kill anyone anymore.  
  
I lower the gun.  
  
"You hear me in there? Come down and pay or I toss you out!"  
  
The landlady moves down the hall to disturb more tenants, the fading jangle of her keys the only signal of her retreat.  
  
She'll never now how close she just came to death.  
  
The gun clanks on the floor like the sound of manacles clinking together.  
  
I've got to get away.  
  
.  
  
It is one of those summer days that burns so brightly that everything the light touches seems yellow-tinged. Heero has never enjoyed the summer. He does not understand why the colonies insist on following the seasons of Earth. The older citizens, who still remember Earth, treasure this sentimental tribute to home. When Heero was small, all of the young men and women of the colonies had resented the seasons. They hated emulating the planet that treated them like second-class citizens.  
  
Heero struggles to remember the hatred that he himself felt, but he finds it has all burnt away and left cool ashes in his heart. His desire for retribution and revenge during the war had melted into an earnest fight to keep alive and then, eventually, to stop all fighting completely.  
  
He hears the vidphone ringing in his house, so he hurries in from his garden to answer it. His plants, all curled up and yellow from the heat, rustle in the breeze he kicks up in his rush to the phone.  
  
The video is turned off, meaning the call is probably an official message. Heero feels a flash of disappointment, but picks up the phone attachment anyway.  
  
"Is this Heero Yuy?"  
  
"Yes. Who is this?"  
  
"We're calling to inform you that Relena Darlian is dead."  
  
Dead.  
  
"Dead?"  
  
Dead.  
  
"Dead. There was an assassination attempt-"  
  
De-added.  
  
"-at 7:46 PM Central European Standard Time-"  
  
Subtracted.  
  
"-Three bullet shots to the chest, a triangular pattern-"  
  
One minus one.  
  
"-still trying to trace the group claiming responsibility-"  
  
Oneminusone  
  
"-believe it was a lone gunman, though. We've taken him into custody."  
  
No more.  
  
The phone clanks on the floor like the sound of manacles clinking together. Heero has fallen to his knees. His spine loses the power to remain straight, and it curls forward, as if the force of gravity had become impossible to resist. When Heero's head touches the carpet his eyes slide shut and he lets out a hard breath, as if he is willing the air out of his body.  
  
He can hear the phone on the floor by his ear calling, "Hello? Is anyone there?"  
  
When his eyes open again, he is in the same position, but the room around him is white. He wonders absently if he's dead (de-added, subtracted, one minus one, oneminusone, no more) but he doubts it. His heart feels heavy. It's so heavy that he doubts he can sit up. He always imagined death to be emptiness-a long, endless sleep with long, endless dreams of simple things of no great importance or emotional depth. There is no emptiness here-just a sharp, deep pain that worsens with every breath he sucks in and eases only slightly when he exhales. The result is a slow, painful throb of pain that can only be stopped if his heart stops beating, his lungs stop pulling in air, and his body falls completely still-  
  
He blinks. He has had the exact same thoughts before. He wonders how many times he has awakened like this. He wonders how many times he has thought these thoughts. He wonders how many times he has felt the sharp, deep pain and longed to be deadde-addedsubtractedoneminusoneoneminusonenomore.  
  
He must have been captured. He wonders what cause he is fighting for. He wonders which enemy has captured him. Faces flit around in his skull like bits of paper on an empty street. The firm, noble face of Trieze Kushrenada, The delicate face of Zechs Marquis. The cold, childlike features of Mariemeia. The steely and determined glare of Wufei. Duo. Quatre. Trowa. OZ. White Fang. Himself.  
  
He wonders if they are torturing him. He wonders what they want to know. He considers escape and disregards it. His heart is far too heavy for something as strenuous as escape. He really doesn't care anymore.  
  
A sound startles him into rolling up his eyes to look at the blank white door with a round window at eye level. There is no doorknob on this side of the door. The door swings open. A young woman with long hair the color of sand and eyes the color of the sea (playful and bright at first glance, but dark and sad deep below the surface) searches the interior of the room, "Hello?" she asks, "is anyone-"  
  
Heero blinks.  
  
"-there?" Relena does not finish her sentence. She is not the woman at the door. It is a small, lumpy sort of woman with fading red hair and too many dimples. Her clothing is white, like the room. She is holding a tray in her hands. She smiles vapidly.  
  
And then Heero realizes that Relena was never there at all. It was this woman all along. Relena couldn't be here. Relena is dead.  
  
De-added.  
  
Subtracted.  
  
One minus one.  
  
Oneminusone.  
  
No more.  
  
"Oh! There you are, Mr. Yuy! I've brought you your lunch. It's your favorite today: green jello and custard! I've always been partial to the blue jello myself but.Why are you looking at me that way? You stay where you are! If you come any closer, I'll-"  
  
But the nurse does not get a chance to finish her sentence. She is shoved out of the room. Her bottom goes squeeeeeeee across the polished hallway floor. The tray and bowls of goop soon follow, cracking against the opposite wall and clattering on the floor like manacles clinking together.  
  
Heero does not try to escape. He does not care enough to. After this sudden violence he shrinks back into his cell and curls up on the floor. He looks up at the bright, bright light above him and is blinded by the glare. It looks just like the sun. His eyelids close, but he can still see the light burning through, exploding in a vision of color and brightness that dazzle him into breathlessness.  
  
.  
  
"You saw him today. Minerva has come to Heero's room and served him lunch for the past thirteen days. He has never reacted to her presence. He always accepted the food, ate it all, stacked the bowls, and handed it back to her. Today, he attacked her physically with no visible cause of provocation. He never speaks, and when he does, it's in some sort of code that only he understands-disjointed words that have no meaning together. For instance, last week he simply could not stop going on about 'wings.'" Doctor Inquiz steeped his hands and placed his elbows on his desk. His sat with his back to the window, forcing Duo to stare into the bright afternoon sunlight streaming in.  
  
Duo thought it was funny that he could feel so much like the person being analyzed when he was the one called in to help the doctor. He leaned back in his chair and tried to look more relaxed, "How well does your office keep the confidentiality of its patients?"  
  
Doctor Inquiz was a tall, gangling man whose body never left the 'all knees and elbows' stage with a bald white dome of a head. He was not very impressive to look at, but Duo knew that the man was very highly credentialed. The comment Duo had just made confused Doctor Inquiz: he was not sure if it was meant to be offensive or not. He furrowed his brow, but he gave the young man in front of him the benefit of the doubt, "We've never disclosed possibly damaging information, or handled any lawsuits regarding such a complaint, if that's what your asking." He frowned again, and then his brows lifted, "Why? Do you know something about Heero Yuy that his records do not state? Something that could have caused his condition?"  
  
It was Duo's turn to look grim. The doctor regarded him with new eyes. The man in front of him did have an air of something secretive about him. Behind the long braided hair, the cheerful eyes, and the relaxed posture, there was a definite darkness to him.  
  
"Do you know something, Mr. Maxwell? Anything?"  
  
Duo shook his head, "Never mind, doc. It's nothing of importance. It can't be the cause. I was just paranoid."  
  
"'Paranoid,' Mr. Maxwell? I don't think you understand the severity of the situation here."  
  
"Actually, doc, I do. Give him some pills, suggest further counseling, and let him out. You keep him locked up like this and you'll drive him even more crazy. Trust me. Heero doesn't have any happy memories of being stuck alone in some room."  
  
"Mr. Maxwell, I doubt anyone has any happy memories of being locked alone in a room. Mr. Yuy does not have a single record that points out claustrophobia or any similar situation that would cause him harm." Doctor Inquiz flipped open the manila folder on his desk and browsed through it, "He grew up in a suburban section of L1, attended high school on Earth for a while-the same school as Relena Darlian, if you can believe it-entered into a prestigious college, and is now a third-year engineering major. His record did point out that he lost his entire family tragically in a shuttle accident several years ago. You vidphone code was the only one we found in Heero's house."  
  
One side of Duo's mouth quirked up. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, "Do you mind?"  
  
Doctor Inquiz shook his head and waited patiently as Duo sparked his lighter and lit the end of his cigarette. He expected the dark haired young man to let the flame go out, but instead Duo leaned forward and lit the corner of Heero's file. The flame curled the papers and Doctor Inquiz jumped back and threw the file into his metal wastebasket. The flames roared to life as they consumed the files and then petered away to nothingness once more. Duo took a deep drag of his cigarette and blew out a long breath of smoke.  
  
"What in the devil's name are you doing?" Doctor Inquiz practically shouted, "You could have lit my office on fire! What possessed you to burn Mr. Yuy's file?!"  
  
"It's garbage, doc." Duo replied, "I'm just making sure it goes where it belongs. It won't help you if you want to save Heero Yuy."  
  
Footnotes:  
  
The extract from Stoppard's excellent play was one of the first motivations to write this fic. Stoppard's comment on humanity's inability to understand who they are was one of the inspiring phrases for the development of the characters in this fic.  
  
"For a Friend or "Requiem for a Friend" was originally published in Rilke's book of poetry called Requiem in honor of a close friend and painter (Paula Modersohn-Becker) who died in childbirth. In his poem, Rilke discusses Paula as a mother, as a fellow artist, and as one of the dead in an attempt to understand these three roles. There is such purity of emotion in the substance of the poem that I wish I spoke German to embrace the full depth of its meaning. The emotion and the construction of the poem was the main inspiration for this fic.  
  
The song "I've Seen It All" performed by Yorke and Bjork also inspired the post-war character of Heero.  
  
An intense re-reading of Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison really influenced my writing style and several of the main themes, especially Milkman's meeting with Circe near the end of the novel.  
  
On a more personal note, four weeks ago, a few days after reading Banana Yoshimoto's Asleep (a book of three stories devoted to the process of mourning), I lost a close family relative. Over the past year I have not had time to mourn the two other people I had lost, and this death, accompanied by the deep emotional pain brought on by the book, put me into a very bad state. The problem was that I had no way to vent my grief. So I started writing.  
  
The story you have begun to read is a intermingling of all of these inspirations, good and bad. As the fic progresses, I hope to make more notes of similar quality explaining the varying influences.  
  
I welcome all comments and criticisms. 


	2. The Blurred Line

A/N: I would like take this moment to thank my fanfiction.net readers, Ukchana, Vchanny, Stefy, and Water-Soter. I appreciate your support. I would also like to thank my GW_Heero_and_Relena ML readers, who have offered me a great deal insight and inspiration.  
  
A previous draft of this chapter was published on GW_Heero_and_Relena ML, but after I looked over it for a second time, I decided it was simply too clumsily assembled to stay that way. I felt like I was losing my drive at that point, but something soon changed my mind. Two nights ago, I went out with a friend who I will not see again for several months. We have been close friends for seven years, and I felt deep pain to see her go. On a quick impulse, we decided to go to the beach. It was late at night, and the sky was like spilled India ink on a white canvas. We had been awkward all night, wondering if our friendship would survive the long separation.  
  
We parked the car and walked out onto the gray sand. The sky and ocean blended together. It was as if the darkness itself was breaking waves against the beach instead of the water (A simile I now included in this chapter). And suddenly, as if we had the exact same thought at the exact same time, we were kicking off our shoes and running to the water. The ocean should have been freezing, but it felt remarkably warm against our feet. Neither of us could feel the cold at all. And then we began to run, racing across the shore as if we were running from our fates. We stopped when a wave broke close to the beach and sent water around out ankles. The salty spray stung our faces and swept our hair into a tangle. We spent a few moments talking, feeling sand crabs dig under our feet and the adrenaline pumping through our veins before we raced back the way we came. Our sodden jeans stuck to our calves (as they had unrolled during the run) so we walked again, watching the frothy white foam wrap around our ankles and then slide away with the retreating waves.  
  
It was during this time that I mentioned a version of "The Little Mermaid" I had heard as I child. In this version, the prince falls in love with a human girl instead of the mermaid. The jealous mermaid goes to the prince's chambers to kill both the prince and his lover with a dagger. But when she sees them together and notices the love in his eyes, she stops and kills herself instead.  
  
After she dies, she turns into the ocean foam, forever trying to ride the waves to land to catch a glimpse of her prince once more.  
  
I mentioned this to my friend, and we considered what it meant. Perhaps her love had matured to the point where she was contented with his happiness, even if it wasn't her providing that happiness. Or perhaps it proved that her love was impossible, because she would always be a part of the sea and he would always be a part of the land, and it was an inescapable barrier to their relationship.  
  
The conversation drifted away from the subject, and eventually our focus narrowed to the sound of the waves, the smell of the sea, the feel of the water stealing sand from under our feet, and the quiet divinity of the moment we had been so lucky to stumble onto. Background sounds and thoughts melted into nothingness. and suddenly, all we were doing was simply existing without the complicated and distracting thoughts we are so want to provide for ourselves.  
  
I hope that this story will capture some of the beauty and clarity of that moment.  
  
Thank you for reading.  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing. I am making no profit through the online distribution of this fic.  
  
Chapter Rating: PG-13; for mature content  
  
Categories: Drama, Angst, Romance  
  
"An Ideal Match" By: Moonkitty  
  
Chapter II "The Blurred Line"  
  
"--The Innocent sleep, Sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of care, The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast."  
  
--William Shakespeare, Macbeth  
  
One side of Duo's mouth quirked up. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, "Do you mind?"  
  
Doctor Inquiz shook his head and waited patiently as Duo sparked his lighter and lit the end of his cigarette. He expected the dark haired young man to let the flame go out, but instead Duo leaned forward and lit the corner of Heero's file. The flame curled the papers and Doctor Inquiz jumped back and threw the file into his metal wastebasket. The flames roared to life as they consumed the files and then petered away to nothingness once more. Duo took a deep drag of his cigarette and blew out a long breath of smoke.  
  
"What in the devil's name are you doing?" Doctor Inquiz practically shouted, "You could have lit my office on fire! What possessed you to burn Mr. Yuy's file?!"  
  
"It's garbage, doc." Duo replied, "I'm just making sure it goes where it belongs. It won't help you if you want to save Heero Yuy."  
  
"What are you going on about?"  
  
"Heero Yuy is an alias. A pseudonym. One of many of his assumed names, as far as I know. Heero was a kid like me-one of the ones who fell through the cracks that was young enough and idealistic enough to be put to use." Duo sucked in another lungful of noxious smoke before releasing it into the air, watching it as it twisted and curled in the afternoon light.  
  
"'Put to use?'"  
  
"He was a soldier. A terrorist more like it. And that 'wing' nonsense was not actually nonsense, doc. It was the name of his Gundam, Wing Zero."  
  
"I'm holding a Gundam pilot in my hospital?"  
  
"Not just any pilot, doc. The one who saved Earth several times over from destruction, as I'm sure you'll remember."  
  
"Wing Zero.that was also the one.the one that destroyed the shuttle with all of the peacemakers during that conference early in the war."  
  
"Exactly." Duo finished, "He probably wouldn't survive if he were to be given to the authorities. They're right grateful after a crisis, but nobody actually feels comfortable letting the Gundam pilots walk free."  
  
The doctor was staring at his desk, "I remember seeing the opinion polls on the news.the failed Gundam pilot hunts.but I never thought that they'd be.be."  
  
"Children?"  
  
He nodded.  
  
"Yeah. Heero was the worst of us all. He was practically a machine right from the start. He fought without caring, killed without caring, and stole without caring. But he started to change. He began questioning his orders. He began wondering how he could end the war.all war.and he started to believe it was actually possible."  
  
"Do you know what changed him so?"  
  
"Of course. You mentioned it yourself. He did go to Relena Darlian's school, and they did meet. She ended up sharing the ideals of pacifism with him, and since then he's always looked to her like she hung the moon or something. He believed (and still believes, I imagine) that she was the cause our unification and decision to forgo violence. In Heero's mind, we'd all go to the dogs without her." Duo squished the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray on the doctor's desk, "When she died last month, it really did a number on him.  
  
"Heero's been through a lot of shit, man. He's been locked up more than once, and I really don't think he takes kindly to walls and restrictions. Keeping him here when he's.not up to par is going to confuse him and make him violent."  
  
Duo made to stand up, but Doctor Inquiz grabbed his arm, "You. You were a pilot too."  
  
The young man nodded, a faint smile on his face.  
  
"But how do you know I won't."  
  
"-reveal our secrets? I don't. But I don't recommend you do. I'm sure everyone will believe your startling discovery, especially when they learn that the only proof you have to support your story is the word of a young, headstrong, and boisterous almost-teenager, and a demented engineering student whose file is no longer in your possession. So go ahead and blab. I won't stop you." Duo pulled out another cigarette, "And if you don't believe me about the harm you're causing locking Heero up, you should contact a man named Doctor J from L1. He was the one responsible for Heero's.training.'  
  
And with that, the firm-jawed 'almost-teenager' stood up, nodded politely, and left the office. The doctor with a head shaped like an egg didn't even think to stop him.  
  
I don't know why I'm buying a ticket to Earth. I know I shouldn't. I know that if I end up on Earth, I'll go to see her speak. I'm losing my grip on things, but I know that when I hear her voice, her confidence, I'll turn right back into the pacifist I've always tried to be. I'll remember our cause. I'll throw out my gun for a while, telling myself I no longer need to worry that my death could be lurking around the nearest corner. A couple of weeks of blissful understanding of my place in the universe will pass, and then I'll buy a new gun, admonish myself for my carelessness, and begin the same downward spiral of self-hatred and paranoia that forces me to return to her.  
  
It's so easy to understand why humans have had wars for thousands of years. We get into cycles: make war, make peace, make war again, each time swearing that this time is the last time.  
  
I wonder if all we've achieved with the end of this war is just a greater sense of self-delusion.  
  
I'm buying the ticket. I'm slipping the spaceport attendant my charge card, and she asks me to sign the bill.  
  
I stop.  
  
Which name am I using this time? I stare into the attendant's vacant made- up face. She looks tired and stressed out. I glance around the spaceport casually, taking in the lines of exhausted people, the low ceiling around the check-in stations, the scurry of soon-to-be passengers moving beyond the lines of people waiting, dragging children or baggage to their important destinations. I see the tinted glass doors even further beyond them, sliding open and shut to the world as cars stop, drop off passengers, and speed off again. Street urchins wander around on the sidewalk, offering to help with bags for tips or picking pockets of harried travelers who are not paying attention.  
  
One of the street kids turns and looks into the spaceport for a moment. He squints, as if trying to peer through the darkened glass and see into another life. He's dirty, skinny, and his clothes are tattered, but as he looks into his glass, the tense muscles on his young face start to relax. His searching eyes widen and a smile touches his lips. He is dreaming. He is dreaming of a place beyond starving and fighting to survive. He is dreaming as I did when I was that age. I look away, embarrassed to intrude on such a private moment.  
  
"Excuse me? Mr. Maxwell? Are you going to sign?" The attendant is impatient. Her previously vacant face has condensed into a frown. The tired passengers behind me are shifting their weight, sighing impatiently, and trying to will me into finishing so that they can have their turn. I do not let the relief show on my face, but I am very grateful to the attendant. She gave me the name I needed to sign with.  
  
"Wufei Maxwell?" she says, watching my sign the bill, "Interesting name."  
  
"My parents were interesting people." Well, they must have been. They abandoned me and left me to a life of pain, desperation, and violence.  
  
"Well, here's your ticket, Mr. Maxwell," she hands me a slip of paper, "your passport, and your luggage tag. You'll be departing from Port 39, flight twenty-thirty-six. Thanks for choosing Earthspace for your traveling needs."  
  
"No," I say blandly, tucking the documents into my jacket pocket as I make to leave, "thank you."  
  
Third-class seats at the butt of the shuttle are not what I call commodious, but I am used to enduring a great deal worse than thirty-eight hours in a cramped position. I kind of like flying because it reminds me of my Gundam-the confined seating, the movement through the vacuum of space, even the hum of the engines makes me feel at ease.  
  
When it's my turn to step up for the full body scan and weapons check, I submit to it with confidence. I have no need to worry, as I have disposed of my gun in the trash receptacle outside the spaceport. The gun was registered under a different name than Wufei Maxwell, and I didn't want to risk the chance of being caught with it and have to answer difficult questions.  
  
I find it easier to mix up the names of my comrades as false names than to actually make up a name for myself. I respond faster and more naturally because the name sounds familiar, and that makes me less likely to draw attention to myself. I don't actually know my own name. I doubt I was ever given one.  
  
The scan is over. I move on with a bored expression on my face. Several hours and several delays later, we are all packed into the shuttle and shooting off into the air. I close my eyes, but I do not dream in the conventional sense. I slip into a state between sleeping and alertness. I feel myself standing at the very edge of my conscious mind.  
  
I'm on a beach during the nighttime. The sky is so black you can't tell where the ocean ends and the sky begins. It gives me the impression that it is the night itself crashing and breaking on the shore, Reaching towards the familiar parts of my mind before sinking back into my dark, brooding subconscious. Something is asking me to step into the waves and watch the night-dark sea foam wrap around my ankles and drag me down deep below. A very primal part of me agrees with this longing, but the rest of me resists with all its strength, trying to pull me away from the dark shore.  
  
I feel like I have spent my life standing on this edge, not really living and not really dead, because I'm afraid of them both.  
  
.  
  
"Hey, Heero! It's me, Duo! How're you doing?" Duo said with forced cheerfulness. He was standing awkwardly in Heero's padded cell, watching his old comrade/possible friend stare blankly at the wall. He had come in after his visit with Doctor Inquiz to see the condition of his friend for himself.  
  
Heero just sat there, his dark eyes curiously blank. Once in a while he would suck in a deep, desperate lungful of air as if he had just remembered that he needed to breathe.  
  
"Hey, Heero, c'mon. Won't you say anything?"  
  
"I am Pilot 01 of Wing Zero. All information regarding myself and my mission is classified. Continued interrogation of me will result in a waste of your time."  
  
"I'm not interrogating you, you nut. I'm your friend."  
  
"Your hallucinogenic drugs have no effect on me. I will not give in. You are not Duo Maxwell. I will never forgive you for what you did."  
  
"Forgive me for what, Heero? What.erm.what did I do?"  
  
"The assassination of Relena Darlian will result in the possible destabilization of the entire Earth Sphere United Nation. Your stupidity will cost thousands of lives." Heero's eyes slid over to Duo's, now as hard and focused as splinters of glass, "How could you kill her? What did she do? She couldn't hurt a person if she wanted to. She was my only.our only way to break the cycle of hate." Heero stopped. He had said too much.  
  
"Heero?"  
  
"I am Pilot 01 of Wing Zero. All information regarding myself and my mission is classified. Continued interrogation of me will result in a waste of your time."  
  
Duo had had enough. His eyes flamed and he rushed forward, grabbing Heero by the arms. The former pilot of Wing Zero had thinned down in the past month, and his poor diet and lack of exercise had left him in a very weakened state. He was no match for Duo. Eyes still sparking, Duo forced Heero to look at him, "Shut up, man! I'm not your interrogator! I'm Duo Maxwell! Your comrade! You hate me, but you trust me. What are you doing here, you idiot? You could be out of here in five minutes if you wanted!"  
  
Heero looked down. Duo gave him a firm shake. "I know you.cared for Relena, but do you really think she would want you to put a fucking gun to your head?!"  
  
Still no response.  
  
"Do you even remember what you did? You tried to kill yourself! You were crying so hard you missed your head and shattered your window. What the HELL were you thinking?!"  
  
Finally, Heero looked up, his expression completely sane, "I need to go to the beach, Duo. White Sand Beach, Cinq Kingdom."  
  
"What? What are you talking about?"  
  
"I am Pilot 01 of Wing Zero. All information regarding myself and my mission is classified. Continued interrogation of me will result in a waste of your time."  
  
Duo stared at his friend, but it was no use. The clouds had come over Heero's eyes again, and his face was blank.  
  
He let out a long sigh, "Heero, I sort of snuck in here, so I can't stay. I'm going to come back though. I promise I'll come back."  
  
"I am Pilot 01 of Wing Zero. All information regarding myself and my mission is classified. Continued interrogation of me will result in a waste of your time."  
  
.  
  
Earth is one of the most disorienting places that ever existed. I have always been a controlling type of person. I like to know exactly where I'm going and what I'm doing without any surprises. Earth is the exact opposite of that. The world is as merciless as it is tender. Cities are destroyed, rebuilt, and destroyed over and over again. The colonies simply exist, never degrading, never swept away by the hand of time. The sun always shines on holidays and it rains on the third Tuesday of every month (for nostalgia's sake). Earth gives man none of these luxuries. Hurricanes, tornadoes, earthquakes, and disaster can sweep away a prosperous city in a matter of seconds.  
  
I used to loathe Earth for that reason, but now I realize that from all this wildness and unpredictability comes an incredible depth of passion that touches me deeply.  
  
The more I look at Earth, the more I see Relena.  
  
The sun is too bright and there is no metallic flavor in the air. I pick up my sole suitcase and stroll out the spaceport as if I don't have a care in the world. I hail a taxi and convince the driver to take me to one of the more rundown motels in Newport City by the riverfront. He asks for extra to drive in that area, and I don't make a fuss. Money is not an object for me.  
  
I don't work often, but when I do, I get paid very well. When I'm strapped for cash, I usually pick up a job for the Preventers. Une is very discreet and doesn't ask questions, so it works out well for me. She's offered me a permanent position time and again, but I'm more interested in attending college.  
  
Going to school has always been a fascination for me, especially as a child. I would see children playing and learning behind wrought iron bars and wonder at what their lives were like while I struggled to survive on the streets. When the war started, I made an effort to attend school wherever I was staying. Being in school feels like I'm living some semblance of a normal life.  
  
I check into a room not unlike the one I had before on L1 except that this building looks like it is undergoing a process of decay. Fungi and mosses are growing everywhere, the ceilings are watermarked, and every surface I see has the appearance of needing to be thoroughly scrubbed. I am in an eighth floor room overlooking the narrow street. My bed is shoved in the corner, and I know the mattress will squeak noisily when I sit on it. There's also a small chest of drawers, a nightstand, and an old-fashioned telephone (all thoroughly scuffed and marked by previous visitors). The telephone annoys me most of all. I despise talking to someone and not being able to see his or her face.  
  
Night creeps over the city like a silent lover, and I stretch out onto my bed. My muscles are aching from the long flight and the six hour time difference. My eyes fall shut. I feel myself once again standing on the bank of the dark pool of my subconscious. I'm too tired to fight it. I plant my feet, curve my spine, and dive into its depths with the last of my strength.  
  
.  
  
I welcome all comments and criticisms. 


	3. Rose Light

A/N: Thanks for reading! Many reviewers have expressed confusion about the writing style. You have my deepest apologies for the confusion and I hope this chapter is clearer. And for those who asked, the chapter title of chapter two referred to the blurred line between the conscious and subconscious.  
  
There have been several reviews thanking me for my working but also asking about my WIPs. As I said before, those WIPs will not be finished. This fic is my good-bye to 1xR writing, as I no longer have the time to write for the fandom. The chapters have already been written; I am spending time between chapters tweaking the new material for the next update.  
  
Thanks to Morrighan, Laura, Vchanny, Minako-hime, and Duo's American Boxers for reviewing last chapter.you are all very inspiring!  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing. I am making no profit through the online distribution of this fic.  
  
Chapter Rating: PG-13; for mature content  
  
Categories: Drama, Angst, Romance  
  
"An Ideal Match" By: Moonkitty  
  
Chapter III "Rose Light"  
  
"If the world has indeed, as I have said, been built of sorrow, it has been built by the hands of love, because in no other way could the soul of man, for whom the world was made, reach the full stature of its perfection." [1]  
  
--Oscar Wilde, De Profundis  
  
Heero comes to the slow realization that his eyes are open. He blinks blearily, wondering why everything around him is white. He does not know how long his body has been awake while his mind slept. He is lying flat on his back with his arms and legs spread out like a doll that has just been pushed over. His heart feels heavy. It's so heavy that he doubts he can sit up. He wonders if he is actually dead.  
  
But he is not dead. He always believed death to be emptiness. There is no emptiness here, so he wonders if he could be alive. But he is not alive. He always believed life to be an overflowing of joyful feeling, where every sense is stretched to its limit and every emotion flutters in his chest like the wings of a hummingbird. He does not feel this either.  
  
He hears something. A mutter. He turns his head. Heero sees a man lying beside him. The man does not move, but he stares at Heero with confused and curious eyes. He has placed one hand on his stomach and one on the floor beside him. There is a pink scar tracing a diagonal across the man's left cheek. His clothes have the cut of hospital clothing and rise and fall with every breath he takes. He looks like he has neglected to take care of his appearance for quite some time (his chin is unshaven and his hair is an uncombed mess) and his eyes are wide The light reflects off of those eyes strangely. There are oddities in his appearance as well. There are long scratches down the sides of the man's arms that appear self-inflicted. Heero looks to the likely cause of the scratches and finds that the man's finger and toenails have been recently trimmed very short. The pieces fall together. Heero realizes that he is sharing his room with a madman.  
  
Heero sighs, and so does the man.  
  
And then Heero realizes that he is looking at himself.  
  
There isn't another person in this room, just a large mirror stretching across one whole wall. Heero unfocuses his eyes and looks at the glass of the mirror itself instead of his reflection. He sees shadows moving behind the glass. It is a one-way mirror. He is being observed.  
  
I'm not being tortured like I thought, he tells himself, still staring into the mirror.  
  
I've gone insane.  
  
.  
  
Doctor Inquiz, the man with a head like an unhatched egg, was working hard to find the elusive man named Doctor J, but what he found out so far about the man he sought was not to his liking. Doctor J, it seemed, was a scientist accredited for some of the most terrible inventions of the past three decades. He had become involved in the creation, design, and implementation of planet-destroying guns, the most advanced of mobile suits, bionic technology, and the latest genetic splicing break-throughs. Mixing that horrifying genius with strong political views and a lifelong determination to fix the problems in the world-well, Doctor Inquiz was not pleased with the result.  
  
He sat at his desk shuffling the papers and making notes. The case of Heero Yuy had begun to consume the mild-mannered doctor. How could a boy raised by such a brilliant and terrifying scientist see the world? What could have happened to a person who had endured so much to have finally dragged him over the edge?  
  
Doctor Inquiz expected to spend weeks searching for Doctor J. He believed he would need professional help to eventually locate and question the scientist.  
  
He wasn't expecting the focus of his hunt to knock on his door one Sunday morning four days later.  
  
.  
  
I buy a paper at the local newsstand before I head out to visit the House of Commons, where Relena has been scheduled to give a speech on the virtue of strengthening economic ties with the colonies. The main page is splashed with news of talks, treaties, negotiations, disagreements, a murder, three robberies.and a suicide.  
  
I stop flipping through the paper when I catch that headline. Dorothy Catalonia committed suicide last night. The article is brief, suggesting the motivation was related to Catalonia's shame of her family's military heritage and noting that the Foreign Minister was canceling a week's worth of business appointments to spend some time in mourning for her friend. There is going to be memorial service at a local church and Relena will be attending. I decide to go as well. I had known Catalonia during the war, and, even though I can't admit to ever liking her very much, her death does affect me. Dorothy had hated peace, but through her relationship with Relena, she changed.  
  
It takes two buses and one long walk to finally reach Rose Chapel, but I manage to arrive just in time for the ceremony to begin. I feel pretty secure that I won't be recognized; I know that none of my war friends have the ability to shuttle down in time to attend the memorial. Relena will be the only one to recognize me-if I let her see me.  
  
I file into the back row and listen to the priest give a short biography of Catalonia's life: her involvement in the war and White Fang, her atonement and instrumentality in the defeat of the Barton coup in AC 196, her constant regret of her naivety and the heritage of her family, and the lessons we all could learn from her. I soon find that I am more intent on examining the surreal quality of the light in the small chapel than listening to an old man who never knew Dorothy speak about her life.  
  
Rose Chapel is named for its sole stained glass window above the chapel's heavy wood doors. The window is a rendering of a delicate blush-colored rose coming into blossom. The entering light, filtered by this window, paints the entire room with a spectrum of blood colored reds and subtle pinks.  
  
"Dorothy's life and tragic death can serve as a reinforcement to the lesson you all should know. Your past can either be the weight that drags you down or the wings that set you free. Dorothy refused to let go of her guilt about her life before, and the only result of that was her early demise. Learn from you past so you won't end up repeating it."  
  
I know I should be looking up at the priest, but my eyes are stuck on the slender white jar of Dorothy's cremated remains. My thoughts are interrupted when a slender blonde woman crosses my line of vision and stands, for a moment, between the jar of Dorothy's remains and myself. It is Relena, and she's crying. There's a paper in her hand, and I realize that she's about to deliver the eulogy. She doesn't go to the pulpit, as I expected, but stands close to Dorothy's jar, her fingers gently touching the lip. Her long hair is the color of sand and her eyes are the color of the sea, but under the light of the window the reds and pinks tangle in her hair and glow like the shifting wavelengths of light during a sunset over the ocean.  
  
Crying doesn't make Relena more beautiful, but it does help her seem more human. It overpowers the ethereal quality of her face that makes her appear so much more mature than others her age. She now looks like what she is: a broken-hearted girl, "Dorothy Catalonia," she says softly, folding up the paper and putting it into her pocket, "was my friend. I." Relena trails off. Her brow furrows. Troubled thoughts dart across her mind like dragonflies skimming over a pond. Several people shift their weight in their chairs as the usually loquacious foreign minister struggles for words. Suddenly, the confusion drops from her face and she looks boldly out into the crowd, her chin tilted up and t defiant, "I want to say more. I want to deliver the praise Dorothy deserves, but I simply don't have the strength. Dorothy was my friend," Relena repeats with great conviction, her sea-colored eyes daring the crowd to look away, "and I will miss her."  
  
Even more tears pool up in those eyes and then spill over, cutting a crystal path down the smooth curve of her cheeks. I watch Relena duck her head to hide them and return to her seat. I am not surprised that I did not spot her before. Her dress is modest, black with a tapered waist and a slightly flared out skirt ending at mid-calf, and her posture is very unassuming. But the image of her eyes, so soft and glittering when she spoke, sticks in my mind.  
  
I think she has sensed the weight of my eyes upon her. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear in a nervous gesture. She turns slightly, glancing back into the farthest row away from the pulpit. Her eyes widen. She has seen me. She looks back to the altar, but contact has been made. We will meet later. All I have to do now is wait.  
  
The funeral is brief and to the point. Few people cared for Dorothy in any way besides a person of power, so, while most are genuinely polite in conveying their condolences, there are very few tears except for Relena. Sometimes I think she is more alive than any other person in the universe. She feels more deeply than anyone I have ever known, and that depth of love and caring has pulled many people over to her side.  
  
The chapel is small and old, and as we file out of it, a strange procession in black, I glance up at its sole window one more time The image of the rose is much less powerful on this side of the wall. Inside the chapel, its existence changes the entire room into a paradise of red. Outside of the chapel, it has no more significance than any other window to any other building.  
  
I spot Relena speaking to several men in dark black business suits. She seems upset. She shakes her head once or twice, and then lifts her eyes in a seemingly cursory glance over the area as one of the men speaks. She spots me and nods imperceptibly. I make sure she sees me turn the corner and sink onto a park bench. The little crowd of people in black slowly drifts apart as taxis are summoned, appointments are remembered, and the memory of Dorothy begins to lose its power. I doubt that any of them will really remember today with any interest. Perhaps a funeral is actually a dead person's final attempt to be remembered, to imprint themselves on the living so that a little of them are left behind in the world they knew.  
  
I let my eyes close for a moment as I try to summon up an image of Dorothy's face: the long white-blond hair, the ruthless ice-colored eyes, the peaked eyebrows, and smug expression. I wonder if her face had softened over the years after the war, if those cold eyes had melted like snow during the spring and if her hair had darkened as she left adolescence. I try to think of a Dorothy without a calculating grin, who could smile with joy instead of triumph, but my imagination comes up short.  
  
"I couldn't believe you had come when I saw you." Relena says suddenly. I open my eyes and find her sitting beside me on the bench, small and tired in her modest black dress with eyes glittering like stars. She doesn't look like she's about to cry though. She's thinking, but I don't know what she's thinking about. She's not wondering why I am here; the only times I have ever visited her since the war ended have been spontaneous meetings such as these. Her next words have been chosen carefully, " Did you have a good shuttleflight?"  
  
"As well as can be expected, I suppose," I say, but I know she's not listening to the answer, "What's wrong?"  
  
She looks up at me, startled that I have seen through her. A blush touches her cheeks for an instant, "I'm sorry. There have been so many things happening lately and I-"she trails off, looking at me like she has seen me for the first time, "Heero," she says in a curious tone of voice, "Are you doing anything terribly important on Earth?"  
  
"Not particularly."  
  
"How long are you staying?"  
  
"I don't know, why?"  
  
"Heero, I need your help. Dorothy did not commit suicide. She was murdered."  
  
Footnotes  
  
[1] De Profundis was written in prison by England's greatest playwright of his time, Oscar Wilde, who had been imprisoned for his love of another man. The excerpt I included at the top of the chapter captures Heero's state of mind. I have included an extended quote of the passage for further reference. I think you will find the description of Wilde's friend to be very similar to Relena.  
  
"I remember talking once on this subject to one of the most beautiful personalities I have ever known: a woman, whose sympathy and noble kindness to me, both before and since the tragedy of my imprisonment, have been beyond power and description; one who has really assisted me, though she does not know it, to bear the burden of my troubles more than any one else in the whole world has, and all through the mere fact of her existence, through her being what she is - partly an ideal and partly an influence: a suggestion of what one might become as well as a real help towards becoming it; a soul that renders the common air sweet, and makes what is spiritual seem as simple and natural as sunlight or the sea: one for whom beauty and sorrow walk hand in hand, and have the same message.  
  
On the occasion of which I am thinking I recall distinctly how I said to her that there was enough suffering in one narrow London lane to show that God did not love man, and that wherever there was any sorrow, though but that of a child, in some little garden weeping over a fault that it had or had not committed, the whole face of creation was completely marred. I was entirely wrong. She told me so, but I could not believe her. I was not in the sphere in which such belief was to be attained to. Now it seems to me that love of some kind is the only possible explanation of the extraordinary amount of suffering that there is in the world. I cannot conceive of any other explanation. I am convinced that there is no other, and that if the world has indeed, as I have said, been built of sorrow, it has been built by the hands of love, because in no other way could the soul of man, for whom the world was made, reach the full stature of its perfection. Pleasure for the beautiful body, but pain for the beautiful soul. "  
  
I appreciate all comments and criticisms. 


	4. A Promise Made Through A Gap

Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing. I am making no profit through the online distribution of this fic.  
  
Chapter Rating: PG-13; for mature content  
  
Categories: Drama, Angst, Romance  
  
A/N: Please forgive any typos. I checked it over myself, but I am tired and sleepy and probably missed one or two.  
  
"An Ideal Match" By: Moonkitty  
  
Chapter IV "A Promise Made Through a Gap"  
  
"They knew they had to put their faith in fragility. Stick to Smallness. Each time they parted they extracted only one small promise from each other:  
'Tomorrow?'  
'Tomorrow.' They knew things could change in a day. They were right about that."  
  
--Arundhati Roy, 'The God of Small Things'  
  
.  
  
"Heero, I need your help. Dorothy did not commit suicide. She was murdered." Relena is focused entirely on me, her face intent, "The Preventers won't follow up on it due to lack of evidence. I'm not going to rest until I find out who did it and why."  
  
I stare at her.  
  
"We can't talk here," Relena says, looking over my shoulder towards the busy public street. We both know exactly what that means. "Visit me tonight, will you? You know where."  
  
"Are you Doctor J?" Doctor Inquiz asked stupidly. He knew. He'd seen pictures. Doctor J's unmistakable bionic eyes and clawed hand made him quite remarkable.  
  
"Yes." The scientist replied simply as he strolled into the office of Doctor Inquiz and pulled up a chair, "I understand you have recently been given a rather sensitive case. An engineering student named Heero Yuy, I believe?"  
  
"Yes, that's true," Doctor Inquiz replied absently, his mind focusing on the intrusion and not the question, "but I see no reason why you should barge into my office on a Sunday morning requesting classified information. Please call during normal business hours and my secretary will be sure to arrange an appointment."  
  
"Ah, good point." Doctor J replied, his expression unfathomable behind his insect-like eyes, "Except my business is not normal, and not something that can be covered in an appointment."  
  
Doctor Inquiz let out a funny little sigh and nodded, "I thought it might not. What is it you want?"  
  
"I want to see Heero Yuy. I want to confirm with my own eyes what I have heard."  
  
Doctor Inquiz ran a hand along the curve of his bald head and then leaned back in his chair. He would never admit that he was stomach-clenchingly nervous, "That's interesting. I want something too."  
  
"What?"  
  
"My treatment of Mr. Yuy has made.limited progress." He started carefully, "There are things I don't know about Mr. Yuy, things that could help me help him. I have been led to believe that my file on him is.incomplete."  
  
Doctor J nodded. The planes of the scientist's body were shaped like the face of a mountain and his eyes were as inscrutable as those of a beetle. The firm line of his mouth opened like the entrance to a cave, "I've always believed that humans work best when they work together. Perhaps we can make an agreement?"  
  
"You have my complete attention."  
  
"I will give you an account of the time Heero spent in my care, and you will let me see him."  
  
"How do I know you won't leave anything out?"  
  
The unblinking beetle eyes remained trained on Doctor Inquiz as Doctor J studied him. The psychiatrist commanded himself not to give in to the urge to shift his weight. The firm line of Doctor J's mouth twitched into a smile, "You won't."  
  
"You're scared of him, aren't you?" Doctor J asked mildly, "Knowing that he's a Gundam pilot and all."  
  
"Of course I'm scared of him," Doctor Inquiz replied, "If we didn't have such tight security-"  
  
"Don't even finish that sentence. Let me assure you, if Heero Yuy wanted to escape this place, he would have been long gone days ago." Doctor J interrupted, "I trust that puts your mind at ease?"  
  
"Hardly," Doctor Inquiz replied dryly.  
  
"When I saw Heero he was still just a small and starving boy." Doctor J began, "I was walking through the less savory parts of Colony L1 looking for a person we could train up to pilot a Gundam for Operation Meteor. I had decided to search the streets, where I was sure to find some one resourceful, intelligent, and.unrestrained by moral imperatives. The street urchins were out and about on the sidewalks, begging, pick pocketing, and doing deliveries or message-runs for the drug dealers. A scuffle broke out on the street-not uncommon in the slums of the city, I can tell you-and someone began shooting." Doctor Inquiz couldn't have stopped the grim narration if he tried. The old man's voice was dry and crumbling, like the sound of rocks falling, but not unpleasant to listen to. The gravelly tones hung in the room like gossamer strands, and with every word the web grew more dense and entrapping until Doctor Inquiz found he was quite thoroughly caught up in it. He continued to listen, hypnotized by those insect eyes and the horrifying story they were telling.  
  
"I backed into a corner," Doctor J continued, well aware of the fact that he had captured his audience, "but I was not alone. I found myself standing near a scruffy runt of a boy with the most focused eyes I've ever seen. Several more shots were fired, but the shooter was not in his right mind. He had taken stolen drugs from one of the more dangerous dealers, and when he was caught, he consumed them instead of handing them over. He starting getting seizures, and in his panic, he dropped the gun. The little boy beside me darted forward, picked up the gun, and shot the man without a second thought. The minute the man fell, the crowd closed in. He darted through the crowd and slipped out of sight.  
  
"I remember asking him why he did it years later. He shrugged slightly, completely unaffected." Doctor J's expression became very intense, as if he was reliving the moment, "I will always remember what he told me then for the rest of my life. He said: 'He could have killed me. I don't like living, but I've never been dead. I'll take my chances with what I know.'"  
  
Doctor J's lips quirked into a funny sort of smile, "It took me two weeks to find Heero again, wandering the streets. I told him I liked the look in his eyes and asked him to join up. He said 'yes' without hesitation, and I knew I made the right choice."  
  
.  
  
Heero's consciousness is dipping and soaring like a meadowlark over a wide yellow prairie. The azure sky is so intensely colored that he feels like he is inhaling the color instead of the air. He considers the possibility that the sky could be the sea and the prairie could be the ocean bed and that he could be actually underwater instead of in the air. He weighs the likelihood of this in his head for a while before it slips away like a fish in the hands of an inexperienced fisherman.  
  
He continues to fly without care or worry until he feels an inexplicable urge to look towards the steadily-darkening horizon. He wants to frown in concern, but soon realizes that he is not made up of flesh and blood. He wonders absently if he has any form at all, but that thought is pushed away as an inexplicable fear of the darkness at the horizon overtakes him. As he approaches, he sees that the prairie is coming to end and beyond the prairie is an inscrutable blackness. He dips down and manages to contract his consciousness to a point fine enough to rest on a long thread of yellow grass without it bending under the weight of his thoughts.  
  
He ponders the blackness. He longs to go back to his flying, but the darkness has bewitched him. He stares at it like any small creature standing before a hulking predator with no hope of escaping.  
  
The shadows of the blackness are moving. Without warning, a hint of gray appears. The congealed shadows loosen and liquefy, and a woman emerges. Heero has no eyeballs, nor eyelids to cover them, but he tries to blink anyway.  
  
He opens his eyes and finds himself in a room with three white walls, two white floors, and a wall-sized mirror. But he is not looking at the scenery. He's looking at the girl standing over him.  
  
"Hello, Heero."  
  
She looks like the sky and the prairie inverted with the yellow prairie color of her hair framing the blue sky color of her eyes.  
  
"Relena." he says, "Are you here?"  
  
She nods, and her mouth softens into a smile.  
  
"Are you dead?"  
  
Again, she nods.  
  
The hairs on the back of Heero's neck are standing on end. Is it Relena standing over him? Is it a ghost?  
  
Or is there really no one there at all?  
  
"How are you here?"  
  
She sits beside him, tucking her legs beneath her and touching his forehead with a small hand. Her eyes are dark and serious as she stares at him, running her palm down the curve of his cheek and resting on his lips.  
  
"There is a place, "she whispers, her voice as soft as falling leaves, "where the conscious mind touches the parts of the brain that we visit only in our deepest dreams. We are at that place where your imagination is strong enough to overpower logical thought and let me visit you."  
  
Heero eyes slide from her eyes to the unfathomable darkness from where she came, "That place we visit when dreaming.that's where dead people go?"  
  
"That's the question, Heero. Maybe I have gone there. Or maybe only the part of me you remember has gone there. Maybe this conversation is a hallucination. But I think I'm real," she flattens her palm on his face, "and I feel real," she lifts her hand, "so isn't that answer enough?"  
  
"I think I tried to kill myself, Relena," Heero says. He feels her fingers trace the pink scar on his left cheek, "Duo told me I missed by accident, but I don't think I did."  
  
Her eyes bore into his. She is staring at him intently, but not rudely. His tongue loosens.  
  
"I'm scared." He has said it. He feels infinitely better, "I'm scared of dying."  
  
"You will die, Heero. You've been dying since your conception. It is the only thing you can count on in life."  
  
"No, I said it wrong. I know I will die. I'm scared of dying. I'm scared of losing myself."  
  
Heero knows the chemical process of death. Heero knows that every thought he makes results in a connection of neurons in his brain. He knows that the result of a lifetime of living is a spider web of these connections in his brain. They are the physical construction of his sense of identity. Heero knows that when he dies, his heart will stop beating and his body will slowly, ever so slowly, cool to room temperature.  
  
And Heero knows that the brain will stay active for hours after the last beat of his heart until every neural connection he made during his lifetime slowly breaks apart.  
  
The word 'death' is too brief to describe the experience. It is the unmaking of existence.  
  
It is that unmaking that Heero both fears and longs for at the same time. Relena understands this. Relena has experienced this. He wants her to tell him exactly what it feels like. He wants the reassurance of knowing what the sensation will be like.  
  
He stares up into her eyes, blue like the ocean: light and cheerful on the surface, but dark and inscrutable deep below.  
  
She will give him no answer.  
  
The Newport Library is a true tribute to reading. The library itself is not an architectural feat in any regard. It is far too small for the number of books it holds, and the result is cramped aisles and bookshelves in every location the fire warden will allow. The simple wood paneling and drab surroundings force all of your attention on the books themselves and nothing else. This forced focus creates is a silent and scholarly atmosphere and a very discrete location for a private rendezvous. I go to our agreed meeting place: the Stoics section in the Philosophy aisle. The bookshelf is one of those two-sided varieties that you can look through to the other side of the shelf. I finger some of the titles while I scan for Relena's blond head to appear on the opposite side in the Epicureanism section.  
  
Relena enters five minutes later and starts to peruse titles on her side of the bookcase. Her hair is loose but it looks stiff, as if she has just taken it down from an elaborate hairstyle. Her shoulders are slumping and she seems tired. I suppose the diplomatic dinner she had been attending has worn her out, "You there?" she asks softly, taking out a book and opening it.  
  
"I'm here." I reply. We take on an air of diligent readers as we whisper over the pages of the books. Relena, a trained politician, has learned to control her body language to a degree that surprises even me, "How do you know Dorothy was murdered?"  
  
'That's the problem. The only thing I have is a note she sent me the day before." Relena slips a piece of paper through the gap between the books and the shelf and I pick it up casually.  
  
IDearest Relena,  
  
I'm writing this letter to say good-bye. I will be traveling soon. I wish I could give you the details in this letter, but I am afraid you would stop me if you knew where I must go. I find I no longer have the ability to control my life. I always feel as if there is someone here, telling me what to do.  
  
A friend once told me that the most pathetic thing in life was a woman who could not cry. I found myself crying last night, sobbing for hours as I realized what I simply had to do. By making this trip, I am finally freeing myself from burying what I feel. No matter where I go or however long I stay away, a piece of me will always remain behind, eternally devoted to you.  
  
Most affectionately,  
  
Dorothy i  
  
"This is definitely Dorothy's handwriting," I say, scanning the neat lines for signs of forgery. There are no inconsistencies, no telltale wobbles when the letters loop, and Dorothy's unique slanted scrawl would be virtually impossible for any copyist to believably forge, "But her words seem.odd."  
  
"She never wrote like that in her letters," Relena explains, "she had changed since the wars, but she always remained strictly formal whenever she spoke to anyone. I don't think she ever called me anything other than 'Miss Relena.' And the way she says things. Like the way she mentions she feels like she's 'lost control' and someone is 'telling her to do something.' It really frightened me when I read it, actually."  
  
"You showed this to the Preventers?"  
  
"No. I did show it to a psychiatrist friend of mine who can be trusted for his discretion. He said that the writing is a clear sign that Dorothy had a mental disorder. Probably manic depression." She pauses. I think she is hiding something, "He also said I should have brought it the day I received it instead of waiting."  
  
"You waited?"  
  
"It came in the mail the morning before she killed herself. I know I should have brought it in then, but I believed that something.else had prompted her behavior."  
  
"What?"  
  
To my complete surprise, Relena blushes lightly. I can just barely see the top of her cheeks if I lift my chin a bit and look down through my eyelashes. I lower my chin again and train my eyes back on my book as I strain to hear her voice.  
  
"She and I had just had a.disagreement," Relena whispers, "I had thought it was about that."  
  
Relena looks reluctant to say more, so I let it drop, "What else do you know?"  
  
"Dorothy has always had many enemies in high places. She has been using her fame to help me convince others to think twice about their stance against pacifism. Many people consider her a traitor."  
  
"Did she mention any direct threats to you?"  
  
"Well, there was last Friday," Relena puts back the book she had been perusing and pulls out another, "I came to visit Dorothy's home to talk about next month's conference. When I arrived she was going through the mail. We just started talking when she suddenly froze up and went white. I looked over her shoulder and saw a blank envelope. She read the note inside very quickly and then threw it into the fireplace. I asked her what it was and she told me it was from a group of people trying to scare her into withdrawing her support from me. She told me that they had been writing to her like that for months. Dorothy truly was courageous."  
  
'Did you tell that to the Preventers?"  
  
Once again there was an awkward pause, "No."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Dorothy made me promise not to speak of them ever again. She told me that they had already infiltrated the Preventers. I didn't want them to know that I knew about them yet."  
  
I know Relena is waiting for a response, but I cannot speak yet. There's too much to think about.  
  
"I was going to contact Colonel Une or Quatre right after the funeral, but I saw you. Heero, if anyone can help me solve this, it's you. I trust you more than anyone." She is peering over her book to see my expression. Her eyes dart back down nervously when I meet her gaze, "Say something." She implores me, "Anything."  
  
I feel like someone has squeezed a drop of black ink onto my heart, and that my heart is soaking it up as if it is made of paper instead of flesh. My mindless self-pity has made me hopelessly inattentive to the people around me. I stare at the delicate curve of Relena's cheek and the bow of her lip as she scans the pages of her book. Her posture is so relaxed and casual, standing like a carefree woman caught up in a good book. It hurts to look at her like this while I know that her heart is crumbling like a sandcastle being eaten by the tide.  
  
I once promised Relena that I would protect her. I promised her that I would clear the way for her to rebuild the world. I promised that I would protect her for the sake of her vision.  
  
Now, as I look at her through the horizontal bars of the bookshelf, I find myself repeating that promise of protection. But not for the sake of an inspirational and idealistic pacifist. I'm saying it to the young woman before me. I'm saying it to the curve of her cheek, to the bow of her lip, to the curves of her form, to the sweep of her eyelashes, to the bend of her hair, and to the heart inside of her that just told me she trusted me.  
  
"Well, Heero? What do you think?"  
  
"I will protect you, Relena."  
  
Footnotes:  
  
Heero's choice to study the rational and logical Stoicism in these meetings is not a coincidence. I rather like to think that the book he is holding while speaking to Relena is Marcus Aurelius' 'Meditations,' which is, I am told, an essential to any follower of Stoicism. I would like to draw your attention to one line that Marcus states in regard to the "irrational" fear of death:  
  
"But if there is no harm to the elements themselves in each continually changing into another, why should a man have any apprehension about the change and dissolution of all the elements? For it is according to nature, and nothing is evil which is according to nature. " ("Meditations," Chapter 2)  
  
Relena, of course, is in the Epicurean section, a philosophy whose chief belief is that the ultimate goal in life is pleasure. I am fascinated by their stance on death, which was summed up by The Philosophy Garden () as:  
  
"The soul is regarded as being composed of fine particles distributed throughout the body. The dissolution of the body in death, Epicurus taught, leads to the dissolution of the soul, which cannot exist apart from the body; and thus no afterlife is possible. Since death means total extinction, it has no meaning either to the living or to the dead, for "when we are, death is not; and when death is, we are not." 


End file.
